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Snow fell like a quiet exhale in the forests of Hanamura. The air was crisp, the scent of pine and cedar mingling with the soft crunch of boots against the frost-covered earth. Hanzo was no stranger to this place; its serenity provided a much-needed reprieve from his burdens, a space where he could meditate and momentarily lay down his guilt.
He had not, however, expected company.
At first, it was only the sensation of being watched—a prickling on the back of his neck, the sharpness of an unseen gaze. Hanzo paused mid-step, hand reflexively brushing the bow slung over his shoulder.
Then, a voice. Cold, musical, laced with venom.
“Another human,” it murmured, disdain rolling off each syllable. “What do you want in this place? Haven’t your kind taken enough from the world already?”
The figure who emerged was otherworldly, breathtaking in a way that defied mortal comprehension. A fae. Your sharp features glowed faintly in the dim light, your eyes alight with an unearthly hue. The frost seemed to gather around you as if bowing to your presence.
Hanzo’s breath hitched—not out of fear, but awe. “I did not come to take,” he replied, his voice steady but quiet. “I seek only solitude.”
You snorted, your wings flicking behind you in irritation. “Solitude? From what? The chaos you humans wreak upon each other?”
Your tone sliced deeper than intended, and Hanzo’s expression faltered. A flicker of something—pain, regret—flashed in his eyes before he lowered his head slightly, as if in apology.
“You are not wrong,” he admitted. “Humans have done terrible things. Myself included.”
You stiffened, clearly caught off-guard by his honesty. You tilted your head, at him with suspicion. “You admit it so easily,” you said, though your voice lacked its previous sharpness.
“I have little choice,” Hanzo replied, his gaze meeting yours. “To pretend otherwise would be a lie.”
It wasn’t the last time you met.
Despite your initial wariness, you found yourself drawn back to the forest again and again—if only to test the peculiar human with his quiet demeanor and self-loathing aura. Hanzo, for his part, never pushed. He would greet you with a solemn nod and continue his meditation or archery practice, leaving you to decide if and when you would speak.
Days turned into weeks, and your exchanges grew longer, more personal. You spoke of your disdain for humanity, recounting the horrors you had endured at mortal hands. Hanzo listened without interruption, his face unreadable but his eyes filled with a quiet understanding.
“I was tampered with,” you confessed one day, your voice trembling with anger and pain. “Humans tried to twist my power for their own gain, as if I were some tool to be bent to their will.”
Hanzo’s hands tightened into fists at his sides. “That is… unforgivable,” he said softly, his voice tinged with anger—not at you, but for you. “No one deserves such cruelty.”
“And yet it happens,” you replied bitterly. “Why should I trust you, a human, when your kind has done nothing but take from me?”
“You shouldn’t,” Hanzo said simply. “But I will remain here, should you ever wish to try.”
Trust was not easily won, but over time, you found yourself lowering your guard. You began to notice the little things—the way Hanzo always left offerings of fruit or flowers in the clearing, how he never intruded on your space uninvited. He moved with care, his actions deliberate and respectful, as if he understood the fragility of the bond you were very slowly building.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the forest in hues of gold and amber, you approached him with something akin to hesitance.
“Why do you come here?” you asked, your voice softer than before.
Hanzo glanced up from his seated position, his bow resting beside him. “To atone,” he admitted. “For the lives I have taken, the pain I have caused. And perhaps… to find peace.”
You regarded him silently, your expression unreadable. “Peace,” you murmured. “Do you believe it is possible?”
“I do not know,” Hanzo replied honestly. “But I must try.”
For the first time, you didn’t respond with sharp words or skepticism. Instead, you sat beside him, your wings folding delicately behind you. The silence that followed was not uncomfortable—it was a tentative truce, a fragile beginning.